Page 3 of Wed to the Highlander
“I’m completely sober. Perhaps I’ll stay and enlist Scorpion Stanley’s help getting you to see reason.”
He only grunted as he opened the door and guided her down the hall. “Since you won’t be seeing him to make your case, that’s doubtful.”
They passed through the foyer and had started up the stairs just as the doorbell rang.
“Ah! There he is now.” She yanked free of his hold and began to descend.
Duncan, however, took a page from her brother’s book and flipped her over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time, getting her out of sight before their important guest was admitted.
She pounded on his back with her fists until he clapped his big paw-like hand over her tender behind.
“Your tactics for persuasion are sadly lacking,” she fumed.
At her door—somehow knowing which it was—he let her slide down the length of his long body.
“I think they’re quite effective. You’re delivered tae your room and, come morning, we’ll be betrothed.”
“You must be deaf as well as daft. For the last time, I’ll never agree.”
He cupped her chin for a gentler kiss. “I’ll join you for breakfast, and we can work out the details of our nuptials.”
As he turned away, she stomped her foot. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”
“You’ll always have my ear, lass. When you say something worth listening to.” At the top of the stairs, he shot her a devilish grin. “Rest well,mo chridhe.” His velvety Scot’s burr stirred her nearly as much as his kisses, before he disappeared down the stairs—leaving her fuming, aching, and far from restful.
Beyond frustrated, Maggie slammed her door and leaned back against it. The sob she’d been holding in escaped. She’d dreamed for years that Duncan might return her feelings, and of one day becoming his wife. Now the day was here, and it felt nothing like the dream. She faced a marriage built not on love, but necessity, as a mere pawn in his political and financial game.
To her empty room, she avowed, “It will be a very cold day before I become your chess piece, Duncan MacPherson.”
Chapter 1
Late February, 1863
East Coast Main Line, Northbound
She’d promised herself it would be a cold day before she became Duncan MacPherson’s pawn. Scotland in winter had obliged.
The train rocked in a hypnotic rhythm as Lady Maggie, the newly minted Countess of Rothbury since nine o’clock that morning, gazed out the window. The constant swaying didn’t lull her to sleep, like her traveling companion, but deeper into melancholy.
The hills were lush and green and dotted with sheep. They were still in the English countryside, not even close to the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. And yet, she already felt too far from everything familiar. From her mama, her brother, Andrew, her dearest friend Cici, and her freedom. With each passing mile, she also left behind the dream she’d nurtured in secret for years, that Duncan MacPherson might one day love her. But wishes were like dreams, for fools and children.
The screech of metal on metal echoed through the private car as the train navigated another curve. Maggie, jostled so much since leaving London her teeth ached, braced herself with one hand on the seat and a foot on the opposite bench. The hem of her skirt pooled over the toes of her brand-new husband’s polished leather boots.
Not that he noticed. He hadn’t moved since the last train change in Durham.
Duncan reclined across from her, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. A shaft of afternoon light spilled across his hair, burnishing the thick waves. It wasn’t quite red, not blond or brown, either, but, depending on the light, a mix of all three. Her fingers itched to see if it was as soft as it looked.
The cleft in his clean-shaven chin was on full display, a striking contrast to the beard he wore when returning from the Highlands to the supposed civility of Mayfair. At those times, she could never reconcile the polished earl with the kilted, bearded laird of Clan MacPherson.
At last, the train found a straightaway, and the jostling eased. Maggie resettled herself on the velvet seat. She glanced out at the undulating hillside, wondering when the interminable, dreadfully dull journey might end.
Maggie adjusted her skirts with more force than necessary, her wedding rings catching the light. One bore the MacPherson crest, a clear mark of possession, whether or not he meant it so. The other, an heirloom sapphire surrounded by matched diamonds, glittered coolly on her finger.
If she had any sense, she would have pawned them and caught the next train south.
She sighed, wishing she dared turn thought into action. But she wouldn’t, despite the fury simmering inside her and having no say in becoming the new Lady Rothbury.
Maggie glanced at Duncan again. He looked maddeningly peaceful, eyes shut, arms crossed over his chest like a man with no regrets. He didn’t snore—more’s the pity. It would’ve given her one more reason to loathe him.
